


stay up on that rise, never come down

by OkayAristotle



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Daddy Kink, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rich Clark Kent, Stage Dances, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 04:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: “Can you see without these?” He murmurs, already sliding them off the bridge of his nose and into Clark’s hair.Dumbly, Clark mumbles, “Near sighted.” How sexy. Bruce hums appreciatively anyway, stroking his cheek.“Good.” He nods, settling back onto his thigh, resuming his faint grinding. “The only thing you’ll be able to see is me.”





	stay up on that rise, never come down

**Author's Note:**

> Uh? From July 2017. Bruce is 19, Clark is... old enough. Also, filthy rich because why not.
> 
> Full disclosure: I've never set foot in a strip club, let alone one for the rich.

Going to a strip club was probably one of the worst things Diana’s ever talked him into. Going alone was even worse. 

“It’ll be fine,” she’d said. “Don’t come too quickly.” She’d said. Smiled at him, entirely amused.

Clark was an  _ adult. _ No amount of spinning on a pole could make him  _ come.  _ Hopefully. At least if it does, he’ll be alone. 

Whatever it is he’s expecting — which, admittedly, is not a lot — it isn’t what he gets. For one, he wasn’t warned there was a fucking pole through his table. Diana should have warned him. Someone —  _ anyone _ — should have warned him. 

Clark averts his eyes, and that’s somehow worse. There’s not much of anywhere to look that doesn’t involve expanses of skin and soft, faked moans. Less strip club, and more softcore porno if the various noises the dancers make are anything to go by. 

It’s not exactly loud, too early in the night for that, but the girls dancing to his left don’t seem to have trouble with that. Taking up the left stage, the handful of them have full seats around where they dance, doing physically harrowing moves that have Clark wincing. He never knew a girl could bend like that, spinning on a pole, and still accept twenty dollars into her g-string. 

To his right, on another stage, are the male dancers. 

Only two dancing, though the rest are milling about, sitting on laps and giggling at jokes that aren’t funny. A redhead, mouth curled into a smirk, crawls across the stage toward the offering of money. Most he collects, sliding a few down the faintly sweat-slicked planes of his stomach and into shorts so tight they look like a second skin. A few he offers back from his shorts, leaning over to accept new tips with his teeth, smile widening at the fleeting touches to the wet corners of his mouth. 

Clark shifts in his seat. 

The other boy is just as enthusiastic, though there’s no crawling involved. Instead he makes slow turns on the pole, limbs flexible and languid, a smile on his face. It seems he’s just begun, perhaps, more clothed than the rest and working himself up to his routine.

Held up seemingly by sheer willpower and perfectly smooth thighs, his hands travel down his torso, skirting the edges of his clothes as he removes each item. Clark looks away before he has a chance to slide the top over his head, a small thing cropped high enough that it does nothing to hide the pink nipples underneath. 

Yeah, maybe the pole in front of him is the best bet. Much safer to look at. The booth he’s claimed is directly opposite the stages, and right in between both sides of dancers. A nice, neutral spot. His table — more of a disk suspended on a floor-to-ceiling pole than an  _ actual _ table — is large enough for a whole bachelor party, or for someone to fucking  _ dance _ on. 

His phone buzzes and Clark fumbles it from his pocket with more desperation than he means. 

Diana, through text, manages to sound amused despite asking a single word.  _ Okay?  _

Clark reads the message over a few times. She’s a horrible friend. A horrible, terrible, no-good friend who’s left him to— left him in a  _ strip club. _ Alone. He may be a grown man, but some company while he does his best to avoid lap dances would be nice. 

Diana likes strip clubs, this is her hunting ground. Definitely not his. 

He sighs. The both of them fit in a lot better here than at some of the clubs he’s driven past, especially in Gotham. Anyone and everyone with a dollar to their name could find a strip club they could get into in Gotham. 

Here, there’s an awful lot of sharp suits, matching Clark’s own. The women are dressed up too, stunning enough to rival the dancers, though much more conservative. The message that they’re  _ not _ strippers is loud and clear. 

In the half hour he’s been here, not once has he heard someone utter a price. Place like this, it doesn’t matter. A place like this, he’s fairly sure he could get anything he wanted if he flashed enough cash, though he can’t see any sign of much beyond stripping just yet. 

At least he’s not overdressed.

Finally, he taps out a quick  _ Fine. _ He doesn’t need to be there to know she’s laughing at him. 

With that taken care of, he returns to fixating on the spot where the pole meets the table, trying to block everything else out. Eyes flicking to where the girls dance, half of them topless, Clark wonders how many half-naked people have grinded on his table. The boy on the right stage has moved on to humping the pole between his legs, mouth open on a sigh. 

Clark stares, and stares a little more, and keeps staring until he makes out the faint outline of the boy’s cock in his shorts, hard. His redhead friend crawls back over to him, mouthing at the opposite side of the pole, dollars sticking from the waistband of his underwear. 

He hadn’t expected, really, for them to enjoy it. Not like this. The boy doesn’t seem to be faking, hips stuttering as he moves, and maybe it’s the teenage hormones. 

Clark clears his throat, crossing his ankles. He only jumps a little at the soft, high, greeting from the girl that appears out of thin air, wearing a smile and not much else.

“I’m Payton,” she holds a hand out, formal, completely at odds with the fact that her tits are out. “Can I get you anything?” 

All his life, Clark has been taught it is rude to stare. Especially at womens —  _ fucking girls _ — chests. Instinctively he meets her eyes, and gets the feeling he looks a little desperate with the intensity that he focuses on her face. 

Diana would know the etiquette. Seeing as she has a pair of breasts herself. In a strip club, is it rude to stare at the waitresses tits?  _ Would it be more rude not to? _

Clark stiffly shakes her hand, breath stuck in his throat. She shakes it gently, fingers impossibly soft against his skin, and drops it with a small giggle. 

“You look like a whiskey drinker.” She comments, and chews daintily on one finger. “Would you like some?” 

He’s not sure what that means. Perhaps that he looks old enough to have burned all his tastebuds off. It’s kind of true, at least. Silently, he nods. 

“Great!” She jumps, clapping her small hands, and it’s obviously done for the way her tits bounce slightly. “Anyone you’d like to buy a drink for?” 

Clark stares. He really wishes Diana was here. She’d know if it was an invitation to buy Payton a drink. The girl’s smile widens, leaning over the table to stage-whisper, “How about I pick?” 

His eyes flick down to where her chest comes dangerously close to resting on his hands, pulling his arms in sharply as colour fills his cheeks. Again, he nods, and wishes he could crawl into a hole and die. 

“Great,” Payton smiles, and straightens back out. She takes the notes he offers a little dumbly, more than enough to cover a drink. “I’ll be back soon, don’t get lonely without me.” 

With that, she turns on her heels and leaves, blowing him a kiss as she goes. Once she’s out of sight, Clark begins breathing again. 

A five-foot-nothing girl has never been quite so terrifying. 

* * *

True to her word, Payton returns, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and her other slid somewhere down the back of a boy’s pants. Laughing at something Clark can’t hear, she presses a kiss to his cheek, sending him Clark’s way with two glasses.

From afar, it’s easy to place him. The lines of his body, lithe and talented, are all but burned into his mind despite only watching for a moment. Eyes flicking to the stage, Clark finds it empty, the redhead sprawled on someone’s lap in the crowd. 

With burning cheeks, Clark realizes that’s in his near future. The music changes to something slow and sinuous, the boy coming close enough to set the bottle and glasses down.

The boy doesn’t offer his hand to shake —  _ and was Clark really that obvious in preference? —  _ and instead slides into the booth with a low, “Hey, handsome.” 

Clark shifts in his seat silently, giving the boy room, but he simply follows until he can settle himself on Clark’s thigh. To his slight horror, he feels the hard outline of his cock, the boy’s hips making slow circles on his slacks, perfectly in tune to the music. 

“First time?” He asks, Clark’s fingers tightening on the leather under him. A teenager’s voice shouldn’t sound so damn  _ good. _ Soft and saccharine sweet, he doesn’t sound like puberty is quite done with him. 

He really hates Diana, sometimes. Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Clark nods. The boy smiles, flashing a row of perfect teeth, mouth red and raw. Clark pushes down every thought that rises at the sight, the boy looking kinder and kinder by the second. 

He’s probably not the first nervous newcomer. Won’t be the last. Looking around, he thinks he might just be the  _ oldest _ newcomer. Almost everyone is around his age, and have no doubt been going to strip clubs before the boy on his lap was even born. Clark  _ could _ have been doing that too, but no, he just had to decide to go now. 

Maybe this is his midlife crisis. He’s got enough sports cars to last a lifetime, so strippers it will have to be. 

_ Jesus.  _ It’s half past eleven, and his Ma is probably waking up in a cold sweat. 

The boy on his lap twist at the waist, leaning over to grab the glasses. “I’m Bruce,” oddly enough, the name doesn’t sound fake, but neither did Payton’s, and that’s more than confusing. “But you can call me baby, if you like.” He giggles, handing him a glass and pressing his lips to his own. 

Is this the part where he should give his name?  _ Do people do that? _ Clark swallows half of his glass in one go. It does absolutely nothing for his nerves, except for the fact that it buys him time. 

The boy —  _ Bruce _ — sets a gentle hand on his bicep, close to massaging. If anything, it makes Clark more uncomfortable, painfully aware of the hard-on digging into his thigh. “No need to be nervous,” he murmurs, sipping his drink. Warm fingers skirt across his arm, up to the edge of his jaw, tangling in the hair at his temple. “You call the shots here, Daddy.” 

Clark blinks, frozen. Bruce’s smile widens, mouth wet with whiskey, and his hips switch their pace as the song changes. “Um.” 

Bruce sets his drink down, and Clark clutches his like a lifeline.  _ Daddy. _ As if he didn’t need more reason to leave, with this kid purring on his lap, leaning up on his knees to come dangerously close to his face. 

This close, he can see the mascara on his lashes, the clear blue of his eyes. He leans in, as if to kiss him, but instead brings his other hand to settle on the frame of Clark’s glasses. “Can you see without these?” He murmurs, already sliding them off the bridge of his nose and into Clark’s hair. 

Dumbly, Clark mumbles, “Near sighted.”  _ How sexy. _ Bruce hums appreciatively anyway, stroking his cheek. 

“Good.” He nods, settling back onto his thigh, resuming his faint grinding. “The only thing you’ll be able to see is  _ me.” _

Up until now, he’s managed to keep his eyes fixed on Bruce’s face. Again, it’s a bit of a dilemma, though less so with Bruce wearing something close to clothes. Close, but not quite. 

The heels are nice, boosting the boy an extra few inches when he stands, and Clark notes that almost every dancer sports the same pare in varying colours. His legs are bare, miles of unblemished pale skin, and despite himself Clark’s hands itch to feel them. Latex shorts — if they could be called  _ shorts,  _ as small as they are — hug every inch of his hips, shiny black material outlining the length of his cock. 

Bruce hums, leaning back to run a hand down his chest. “Like what you see, Daddy?” Briefly his fingers dip into his shorts, coming back out wet with precome that he sucks from his fingers slowly. Clark’s never been quite so light headed in his life, and dancing on a pole might not make him come but this might do the trick. 

Bruce’s eyes flutter shut, fingers in his wet mouth, and Clark has to look away. Boys like this are fucking  _ dangerous _ . To his health, his morals, his dick. Clark shifts in his seat. 

Without his glasses on, there’s not much to focus on. The club is a blur of reds and blues, the lights fuzzy in his vision. It almost calms his nerves, the booth feeling as private as it’s supposed to when everyone is indiscernible at this distance. It’s just him, and Bruce, and the tangle of unnerved arousal building in his chest.

Bruce’s mouth makes an obscene noise as his fingers slip free, bringing Clark’s attention back to him. “Want me to dance for you, Daddy?” 

Waiting on an answer, Bruce refills his glass, blue eyes tracking the movement of Clark’s throat as he swallows thickly. 

Slowly, he looks to the pole. Bruce turns to look too, eyes brighter than a moment ago. Quietly, he breathes, “I love to dance.” 

The words, simple and honest, have Clark’s fingers tightening on his seat. He’d looked happy, on stage with everyone’s eyes on him. And he’d looked happier, cock grinding against the metal, edging himself for money. 

For some reason, Clark had expected it all to feel fake. And it does, in a way, but the boy on his lap seems earnest as he chews on his lip, hips rocking against Clark’s thigh. 

“How much?” Clark winces, hearing his voice come out rough. Bruce’s hips stutter against him. He clears his throat. “How much for a dance?” 

Bruce makes an excited wiggle, already rising from Clark’s lap. He misses the warmth instantly, the slight weight of him, the scent that follows him — like candy, or maybe flowers. Something sweet and cloying.

“First one’s free,” he informs him, fingers carding through Clark’s hair as he climbs onto the seat beside him. From there, he steps onto the table, as graceful as can be, even in heels. “After that it’s thirty. Forty if you want me on your lap.” 

Despite himself, and the fact that he’s surrounded by half-naked people, Clark blushes at the thought. This isn’t his midlife crisis — this is prom night all over again, complete with embarrassing erections and an amused date. 

Bruce winks, honest to God  _ winks, _ and on him it looks unbearably cute rather than cheesy. From this angle, Clark’s head tipped back to see him fully, it looks downright hot. He’s so  _ fucked. _

One dance, and he can call it a day. Bruce sways slightly, stepping over the whiskey, waiting for the song to change. One dance, and he can say he got the stripper experience, and maybe Diana will leave him alone. Might even stop calling him a spinster. 

Bruce turns, hands coming to the pole as the song winds down. Even without his glasses, Clark’s fairly sure he’s never seen such an incredible ass. The latex hugs him perfectly, and Clark’s hands itch to feel the softness, in complete contrast to the strength of his thighs, Bruce climbing the pole elegantly. 

High enough that there’s no chance of accidentally kicking Clark in the face — not that he’d notice, as suddenly transfixed on the art of gyrating against a pole as he is — Bruce’s mouth tips into a smile, body taking on the beat of the music as naturally as breathing. 

Now that he’s not on stage, Bruce moves calmer than before, the song as slow as the last. He meets Clark’s eyes briefly, making sure he’s watching. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t think he could look away. 

Clark lets a heavy breath go, heels digging into the floor. Maybe he can see the appeal of a place like this, now that he doesn’t have a lapful of excited teenager, some space between himself and the boy dancing for him. 

He can see why Diana might like this, even if it is hard to imagine her here. She’s the kind of woman who stops to babble nonsense at babies she passes, and gets drunk on half a glass of wine. He’d be kidding himself if the thought of Bruce, moving against her like he is now, didn’t make him bite the inside of his cheek. 

Slowly, eyes tracking the movement of Bruce’s hands skating across his skin, Clark forces his own hands to unclench from the leather under him. It’s a strip club, and he’s not a kid, —  _ but the boy dancing for him sure as Hell is  _ — and there’s not one good reason he can’t enjoy this right now. 

He can think up all those reasons later, when he’s stinking of candy perfume and driving home with sticky boxers. Diana will definitely laugh at him then. 

Held up by yet again sheer willpower and his thighs, Bruce arches his back, mouth falling open in an artful facsimile of what it might be like to fuck him stupid until he comes, the song reaching its climax too. With an audible sigh, Bruce relaxes, shifting until he’s entirely upside down. His dark hair brushes the table, and the smile on his face is entirely genuine. 

Clark reaches for his drink, hand shaking slightly. Bruce’s eyes flutter open, but he doesn’t meet his gaze, the song winding down in the afterglow. Instead, he looks lower, to the noticeable bulge at the seam of Clark’s slacks. 

Desperately, he fights the urge to snap his thighs closed. That would make everything a whole lot worse, even if he does wish for friction. 

“Want me to take care of that, Daddy?” Bruce purrs, rising as the song finishes to slide back down the pole. Clark chokes on his drink, whiskey burning his throat. 

“Um.” He coughs. Bruce giggles, and that shouldn’t make his dick so hard. 

“One of the girls, maybe?” He asks. “Pay’s not got much, but she gives a good titjob.” He adds, in a tone that implies he knows this firsthand. 

The shaking in his hand only gets worse. “Thought you were— I mean—  _ You’re strippers.”  _

Bruce hums in the affirmative, and seems entirely unbothered by the sudden stiffness in Clark’s shoulders. Still hard, he rocks against the pole, thighs spread. “This is Gotham, Daddy. You’ll never find better strippers than us, if I do say so myself.” 

“You do realize— I mean, isn’t that…” Clark pauses. “Illegal?” 

Bruce laughs quietly, resting one soft cheek against the metal. “Stay the rest of the night, Daddy, and you’ll meet half the force. Cops get half-price lapdances, for keeping pretty boys like me safe.” 

Clark’s mouth works silently for a long moment, attempting to find something to say. Anything. Finally, he slumps back into his seat heavily. Unsurprisingly, his dick is still hard, a betrayer to his moral compass. 

“What else do you do?” 

Bruce makes a thinking face, eyebrows drawn together before he finally answers. “Anything.” He murmurs, sounding entirely pleased with the prospect.

Dumbly, Clark parrots him. “Anything.” 

Bruce counts on his fingers as he goes, “Lapdances, drinks, private rooms.” His hips circle languidly. “Blowjobs, titjobs, makeouts, sex, — wanna fuck my ass, Daddy? — and  _ anything _ else you want.” 

Clark stays silent. Heart hammering in his chest, each word only brings forth new images to fuel the ache in his dick. Bruce, who has fucked, and sucked off, and made out with, and done God knows what with countless men, manages to look entirely innocent as he smiles. 

Whether he’s taking pity on him or not, Clark doesn’t know, but he’s grateful when the boy breaks the silence with a soft, “Want me to dance for you again, Daddy?” 

At Clark’s slow nod, he rises smoothly. Maybe everyone’s been like this — processing the glossy pits of Gotham’s elite strip clubs with a shameful hard-on and a slack face — and he’s dealt with it a thousand times before. Or maybe he really is just taking pity on him, the other customers having no trouble with putting their hands and their dicks wherever they please, as long as they throw around enough cash. 

Bruce begins shaking everything good he’s got. Clark pours himself another drink. 

* * *

He goes home with sweet perfume clinging to his clothes, more than a little drunk, and humps his sheets until he can’t anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, ect are always appreciated.


End file.
